


devoted touches and other beloved things

by eat_crow



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, and idk it just seems fitting for arthur especially, i just literally cannot stop thinking about the intricate rituals art piece, it consumes my mind at all times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eat_crow/pseuds/eat_crow
Summary: You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 114





	devoted touches and other beloved things

**Author's Note:**

> [untitled by barbara kruger](https://www.harvardartmuseums.org/art/286927) has had a very strong affect on me for a very long time. something about how arthur is always punching merlin in the shoulder and whacking him upside the head reminded me of it. i wrote this as a sort of study on canon, so i guess it's less explicit merthur than it could be - i planned on writing more to this fic, but i haven't touched it since may 26th and it comes to a natural end, so i figured i'd just post it.

Sweat drips down Arthur’s neck. It pools in the hollow of his throat, soaks his shirt, makes him shiver when a cool breeze hits even though he’s so hot he could collapse. He laughs as a knight struggles beneath him in an attempt to shift the upper hand.

“Just yield already,” he says, and tightens his grip on the knight’s arm. The knight swings one leg around Arthur’s waist and pushes with the other. The writhing pair are flipped, with Arthur slammed onto his back, and the knight puts all his weight onto Arthur’s chest with the forearm Arthur holds. He’s nearly sitting on Arthur’s stomach, his knees on either side of his torso.

“Never,” the knight answers, breathing hard and beaming. His face is so close that Arthur can feel his hot breath fanning over his sweat slick forehead. 

“You’re learning! Thought I’d never see the day.” Arthur lets his head drop to the ground and claps the knight on the shoulder to show his lack of hard feelings, and the knight rolls off of him. He helps Arthur to his feet. They stand too close when Arthur rises, chests almost touching, but they’re so caught up in the exhilaration of their wrestling match they don’t even notice. The knight ruffles Arthur’s sweaty hair and laughs when it stands on end.

“Get a drink, take a break,” Arthur says, “you’ve earned it.” The knight nods and jogs off to the end of the field where Merlin hands him a cup of water. He’s quick to follow. With the sun high in the sky it’s about time they all took a break anyhow. It wouldn’t do any good for one of his knights to collapse from heat exhaustion.

Merlin takes his side when he joins his knights. His fretful fingers untie his gambeson and push the garment off his shoulders, and Arthur is long past batting his hands away and assuring him that it’s just a few knots and he’s a grown man, Merlin, he can take his own shirt off. Years with Merlin under his belt taught him that in some things - most things - it’s easier to let Merlin have his way.

“You let Giraut best you,” he says as he straightens Arthur’s tunic for him. His hands move from his shoulders to the ties at his collarbones to his sides, where the fabric stuck to his skin. He’s checking for bruises, watching for pained creases in the corners of his eyes and upticks in his mouth, even if he’d never admit it.

“I did no such thing. Giraut is getting better.” He pours himself a cup of water, since Merlin was too busy fretting over him to do his job, and Merlin snorts.

“You could’ve stopped that move in your sleep - I could’ve.”

“You can’t even walk down a flight of stairs without tripping over your own useless feet, Merlin,” he takes a sip, “and besides, it’s easy for you to say, you’ve been sitting around all day watching. Don’t you have something better to do?” He raises his eyebrows and Merlin squints at him, choosing his next words carefully. His face pinches and he turns away to mumble something that Arthur doesn’t need to listen to to know it’s disrespectful. He claps his servant upside his head, just for good measure. Merlin gives him a heated look and sulks off with Arthur’s gambeson in hand.

He swears, one day, he’ll get Merlin to treat him with the barest amount of respect for his rank. Even a _yes, sire_ that doesn’t drip with sarcasm would be progress, at the rate they’re going.

  
  


He shouldn’t be doing patrols anymore, what with Uther sick. If something were to happen to him there would be no regent and no heir. He couldn’t be sure what would happen to the kingdom.

But he’s allowed shouldering Uther’s responsibilities to take over his life, and patrols always brought him some semblance of calm. Before Morgana turned on them all, she once spoke of meditation, forcing her thoughts to still and relaxing her mind and body to soothe her anxiety. Hours on horseback, the deep forest air, and his mind empty to focus on every noise in the underbrush and every movement in his peripheral - it gives him the same clearheadedness she claimed meditation gave to her.

It doesn’t do the same for Merlin, whose complaints are annoying and often, and who claims that Arthur brings him along simply to see him suffer.

“There’s a long list of men that would kill to be in your position, Merlin,” he says, his tongue curling in teasing distaste around Merlin’s name as it always does.

“Bring one of them, next time.” Arthur turns in his saddle to give him a reproachful look when something off their trail catches his eye, and his fond smile falls from his face. He calls for his men to halt. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to make out what it is he’s seen, and when he realizes it’s the glint of a sword it’s already too late.

They charge, a group of bandits in ragged clothes and holding swords as sharp as, well, swords. Arthur dismounts from his horse and draws his own sword, the blade letting out a metallic scrape against the scabbard, and he lets the bandits come to him.

Fighting bandits is different from a real battlefield, even from fighting in a tourney. Against other knights it’s between two trained fighters, two people that are taught the song and dance of duel, that can articulate their sword as well as their hands. Bandits are simply trained to be deadly. Brute force incarnate, they hack and jab and throw all of their force into every blow. Knights will work around your blade, bandits will attempt to cut through it. Blocking just one strike can throw your shoulder.

Arthur grunts as he’s hit by one such strike. He grimaces through the pain. Parries. His ears ring with the harsh sound of their swords sliding together. The bandit raises his blade to chop down on Arthur’s head. The move could dislocate his shoulder at best, behead him at worst. He steps closer regardless and drives his sword through the bandit’s chest. In the nick of time Arthur feels a hard yank at the nape of his neck, as if someone grabbed him by the backplate of his armor and pulled him backwards. The bandit’s sword swings centimeters away from his left cheek. He can feel the breeze and hear it _fwip_ , see the reflection of his wide eyes in the blade.

He turns to see who pulled him away, to thank them for saving his life, but there’s no one near him. The only person close is Merlin, one foot stuck in a stirrup, his arm outstretched, staring at Arthur with wide, terrified eyes. He’s worse than defenseless - he’s not paying attention.

“Merlin!” Adrenaline and fear for his friend gives his words a sharp edge, and he gestures to him with his sword as he says, “Don’t just stand there like an idiot!” Merlin gapes at him and clenches his fist, something on the tip of his tongue before he snaps his mouth shut and waves Arthur off with a scoff. He yanks his foot out of the stirrup and pulls his own sword out of its scabbard.

Arthur throws himself back into the fray. His heart roars in his ears. He doesn’t control his own arms and legs in battles such as this, lets his body take over and react. Swing. Parry. Parry. Side step. Swing. Sidestep, stumble, sidestep. Swing. 

A bandit takes his chance and swings down hard on Arthur’s arm. The blade, more blunt than his own but heavy and driven hard, hacks his outer forearm. The chainmail stops the sword from slicing him clean through. He has no idea if he’s been injured or not. Arthur grips his sword with all the strength he has left and charges forward with it. He runs the bandit through easily. He trips on the bandit’s flailing legs. They both go down.

For a moment the world spins, tumbles, and spits him back out again on his back. He’s shaking like he’s walked through snow barefoot. It takes him several seconds too long to get back on his feet, and he thanks whatever god he has to thank that the battle was won before someone could take advantage of his vulnerability. He does a head check. All of his men are alive, if worse for wear.

Arthur sighs and throws his sword blade first into the ground. It imbeds itself and stands straight up. He approaches the knight closest to him as relief and celebration runs through his veins and claps him on the back. He rests his hand on his shoulder, and the knight’s hand shakes just as much as his own when it squeezes his wrist.

“Good lot of help you were, Merlin!” Arthur scolds when he sees him trudging up to join the gang of battered knights. Unlike the knights, the sword in Merlin’s hand has no trace of blood or dirt. One of the edges has a sizable chip out of it.

“I saved your fat rear-end!” Merlin says back, and points the sword at Arthur. His wrist is limp and unoffending. Arthur bats it away without looking from his eyes.

“And when was that, when you were stuck to your horse or when you were hiding in the bushes?”

“You-!” Merlin takes a deep breath, “You are _grumpy_!” He strides past Arthur to check on the rest of the knights, but when their shoulders bump together there’s no force to it, and his gentle eyes betray his frustration.

They’re all too ready to go back home, but the sun is low in the sky and they’re better off making camp for the night. The adrenaline and shock has worn off and Arthur’s arm is killing him, a steady pounding in time with his heart that makes every second agony. He’s determined not to let it show. Even when he dismounts and his face pinches with pain. Even when he tries to free his horse of its saddle and his fingers shake too hard to get past a single buckle. His shaking only gets worse until shivers take over his chest in a wave and he’s forced to sit down, completely out of breath.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks. There’s no surprise he’s near, he always is. He stoops next to Arthur and touches his hand feather light to Arthur’s wrist. He jerks away.

“I’m fine,” he snaps. Merlin takes his temper with a grain of salt and ducks his head to catch Arthur’s eyes. 

“You sure? You look sick.” He invades Arthur’s personal space even further and moves his hand to Arthur’s neck. His fingers are freezing, and Arthur clenches his teeth. “You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot out.”

“It’s December.”

Arthur scowls. There’s only one option, and lying it isn’t. It never is with Merlin.

“My arm,” he says, and lifts his injured arm for Merlin to take, “it was struck.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Merlin asks, his eyebrows worrying together.

“I didn’t want to make a deal of it, you--” he sucks in a sharp breath as Merlin attempts to bend his arm at the elbow. White hot fire ignites his veins. He takes a fistful of the soggy earth to hold himself back from punching Merlin in his pain. He tries to pull away, but Merlin’s grip is firm. “That hurts!”

“Maybe if you told me sooner it wouldn’t be so swollen, my _lord_ ,” he chastises. If looks could kill, Merlin would be struck dead where he stands. But they can’t, so Arthur is forced still in Merlin’s hold. “I’ll be more careful,” he promises quietly, and sets his arm back in his lap. He makes quick work of Arthur’s plated armor. Used to navigating around Arthur’s injuries, Merlin is able to slip the chainmail over his arm without inflicting more pain. His eyes flick to Arthur’s face too frequently, and Arthur wants to scold him to pay attention, but he knows he doesn’t need to. Merlin knows Arthur better than anyone, could undress him in the dark.

Off comes his gambeson, and Merlin holds Arthur’s injured arm with a gentle reverence. His lips press together as he takes in the blue and purple bruise that takes over his forearm. His skin is swollen where the blade made contact. Merlin observes it carefully, only touching the outskirts of the bruise and only looking at where it swells.

“You should have said something, Arthur,” he says, and Arthur idly wonders why he says _Arthur_ with more respect and care than he ever does _sire_ or _my lord_. “We should’ve turned back, it could be broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Arthur says, and that he’s sure of. He flexes his fingers to prove his own point, but Merlin doesn’t look comforted. He flicks Arthur’s forearm, well away from where it was injured, and Arthur grits his teeth and smacks Merlin’s arm as hard as he can muster as pain floods him again. 

“That shouldn’t hurt.” 

“If you do that again, I’ll kill you,” he says.

“If you say so, sire,” he answers, and doesn’t move away. “I don’t have anything with me to lessen the pain,” he says. “It’s going to hurt until we get back to Camelot.”

“I’m a trained warrior, I think I can handle a little pain,” he says snidely, and Merlin’s pitying eyes tell him he wasn’t convincing. He lifts his good arm and gives Merlin’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “It’ll be alright.” Merlin holds his elbow.

“I’ll take care of your horse. Try not to move, I know a lazy prince such as you can manage it,” he says. His smile is small, testing, and when Arthur returns it he brightens. 

Arthur makes himself as comfortable as he can be, all things considered. The pain in his arm only lessens when he holds it against his chest, and then only barely, but he manages. A knight that suffered a hearty blow to the face sits with him. His nose is crooked and bruised, with blood crusted on his upper lip and the corner of his mouth. His right eye is almost swollen shut.

Arthur allows himself to wonder what would've happened if that phantom hand hadn't yanked him away. He'd be in worse shape than the knight beside him certainly - gored to the bone or missing an eye.

Arthur knows he owes someone, somewhere, a life debt. He watches Merlin coo to his horse as he removes her saddle, and he wonders who it could possibly be.

**Author's Note:**

> i've got a larger work in progress if you want to check it out, and i'm writing some other one-shots and drabbles that'll come out... whenever, lol.
> 
> thank you for reading! -- yoyo


End file.
